Curtain Call
by Spockologist
Summary: Due to popular demand, a few longer drabbles on some of my 221b's. Can be read seperate, or as part of my other series. NO SLASH! Just buddies.
1. Bereaved II

**These stories are a continuation of some of my 221b's, they can be read separate, but for the full story, I suggest reading the other version too. **

**Hopefully this one is pretty good. I'm not sure it all ties in together. If there are any discrepancies, or parts of it don't make sense, please let me know. **

**Thanks, and happy reading!**

The sound of raucous laughter broke the silence and I shuddered; this was getting too dangerous. I looked over at Holmes to see how he had reacted and found him with eyes closed, looking almost tranquil. If it weren't for the whitened knuckles and rapid breathing, I would say he was perfectly at ease with our precarious situation.

"Ready, Watson?" he whispered. "Three, two, one!"

We leapt from our places in the shadows of the stairway and burst into the room. Startling the men inside who gave exclamations of surprise. I only had a quick glimpse of a young man, bound hand in foot before a fist connected with my skull. Returning a blow, I heard Holmes shout:

"Princeton! We're here to help you! We know all about-

Here Holmes was interrupted by a wonderful punch to the stomach. Gasping, he swiftly kicked his assailant before breathlessly continuing, "The organization! It wasn't really a club. It was a scheme to, oof, get your money! But you spent it all at cards, so they kidnapped you," Holmes delivered a painful final blow to the last man; shoving him into a corner where I had all the others trained under the barrel of my revolver. "And that's why we're here to rescue you." He grinned. "Watson, do you have my picklocks? We can unshackle Lord Princeton and use the chains for these four gentlemen here."

Holmes never heard my answer.

The gun shot that came from the open door behind us shattered the moment of triumph. Crying out in anger as Holmes crumpled to the floor; I jumped for the hidden attacker, but was too late. He hit me with such force that I swear I saw stars.

~..0O0..~

I was brought back to painful reality to the sound of hushed voices. Blinking, I groggily raised my head to see Mrs. Hudson smiling over me.

"Good morning, I'm glad you're up. We were beginning to think to call for a doctor."

I shut my eyes, trying to block out the throbbing headache. _What is she talking about? I _am _a doctor. _ And then I remembered.

"Where's Holmes?" The sudden change in blood pressure as I shot off the couch nearly sent my head screaming. This was worse than the after math of the New Year's party.

"I'm fine, sit down." Holmes came in in his dressing robe. His voice lacking any of its normal vigor as he languidly lit his pipe and tucked his feet under him as he took a chair.

"But the gun! And Princeton! I saw that man shoot you! Surely you are not fine."

I saw a faint flicker of interest in his eyes. "Yes, that was rather remarkable, wasn't it? Turns out I did have the picklocks on me. In that silver case Mycroft gave me for Christmas. The bullet dented the case; all I got was a scratch."

I was speechless. The chances of that happening were one in a million.

"Princeton, however," Holmes continued, his voice again going bland. "Is still in the hands of those men who are now demanding a ransom for his release." He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and I coughed. Bitterness at failure never settled well with him.

"What do you plan on doing?" I asked, nodding thanks to Mrs. Hudson who handed me a glass of water.

"Nothing,"

"Nothing? Holmes, have you gone mad?"

"Inspector Lestrade is now working on the case. Princeton is now in the hands of Scotland Yard."

"His chances of survival?"

"Minimal. You know how those bumbling Inspectors are." He angrily refilled his pipe before speaking. "You can count on hearing of Princeton's murder during the week. Probably won't even get the body for the funeral without their blasted ransom money."

My eyes widened as I was struck with a sudden idea. "Holmes, how did we get out of that house anyway?"

He gave a noncommittal noise. "Dumped us both outside and some farmer saw us lying in the road. He called Scotland Yard and they came to investigate. By the time they'd arrived, I had come to with a dented case and an empty house."

So that would explain why Holmes was so broody. He never liked Lestrade on the scene when he had happened to make a blunder.

"Holmes," I said carefully, "So those men, they don't know if you lived or not? I mean, that one shot you, and it seemed pretty fatal. For all they know, you're dead."

"And you're point is, Watson?"

"Why not let them think you're dead and then continue to work on the case? They're bound to become more lenient if they think you are no longer on their trail."

I saw the wheels in his mind begin to turn. But before they had completed a full rotation, he slammed the idea down. "But Scotland Yard has taken over the case."

"You know most of the men there would appreciate your help."

"That's true, isn't it?" Holmes had risen from his chair, his ego rising with him. "They would need my help. And if I don't, Princeton will be dead before Friday."

"I wouldn't go that far…"

He waved me off impatiently, "It will have to work. Now," he fairly quivered with excitement. It was such a dramatic change from his previous temperament; one could almost call the switch unhealthy. "To make my death truly realistic, we need a funeral. Yes! A funeral! It's brilliant, I've always wanted to attend my own funeral, you did have one for me, didn't you? After my disappearance? I mean, there wasn't a body of course… but…." He paused as he caught note of my skeptical expression. "Fine, we can discuss my funeral later. But we will have one. And everyone must play a part; I want you to be grieved. And Mrs. Hudson, she will be there also. Weeping women always seem to make things more dramatic. And I suppose, we could… no, no, that's positively wicked of me."

"What?"

"We could inform the men of Scotland Yard that I have taken a sudden turn for the worse and have passed away. That way, I will be free of them to work on the case."

"If Lestrade were to find out…" I warned.

"He won't! All of them will be taken in by the disguise. I suppose I should have played up my injury a bit more at the crime scene… there was blood, but it was just a graze wound. No! I'm fine; you don't need to look at it." He swatted me away. "I guess it will have to be convincing enough. You most certainly would not have been fooled, but these men are not doctors. It should work."

I was slightly disturbed at how enthusiastic Holmes was about the whole thing. Perhaps suggesting a feigned death had not been such a good idea.

"And what of the ransom money? That's the only safe way to save Princeton."

Holmes looked disgusted. "Ransom money is a sign of weakness. Those men are nothing more than cowards."

"Holmes, we tried the dramatic last time. Perhaps playing it the safe way is the better option at this point."

He sighed, flopping down in his chair. "I suppose so. I am loathe to mess up again. Fine. Here's what we'll do. We will send the kidnappers a note informing them of my untimely demise at their hands and that one of my last wishes was for Princeton to be safe. Tell them I have bequeathed them the ransom money in my will and considered one last act of heroism in the fact that my death led to the safe return of one of England's rising young gentlemen."

I was still skeptical. "It's a brilliant idea, but do you think it will work?"

"Of course it will work! It has to work. These men are desperate low lives who want nothing more than a few pounds to line their pocket with. Princeton was a fool to interact with them in the first place. A pitiful show of sociable connexions really."

"As if your friend selection is any better. You have riffraff in here every other afternoon."

"Business associates."

"Of questionable character."

"We can discuss socialites after my funeral. Now if you'll excuse me," Holmes exchanged his dressing gown for his coat and hat, "I must go send a telegram to my brother Mycroft informing him that I have suddenly passed away and would he be so kind to arrange the funeral? Caskets are pricey these days."

And with that, he was gone.

~oOo..~

"Now remember, I want you to act melancholy." Holmes instructed, watching me as I donned my funeral attire. "Comfort whatever poor souls attend, deliver a touching eulogy and keep an eye on the casket at all times. It must stay closed at all costs. I know some people are morbidly curious to view the dead, but I want you to insist that my body has been horribly disfigured and the sight is too ghastly to behold."

"And what are you to be doing while I sit amongst the weeping?"

Holmes's eyes gleamed as he began to rummage through his dresser drawers; pulling out wigs and all sorts of clothing. "After sending a telegram to my brother Mycroft, I did some searching among those of irrefutable character as you call them and was given a pretty accurate answer as to the new location of Princeton's captivity. I will take a hansom and instruct them to drop me off one block from the place and ask the driver to wait. After investigating the area and making sure of it being genuine, a note will be placed in an already disclosed location telling the kidnappers to meet you at the graveyard to exchange money and prisoner.

"After that I will take the hansom to the church, arriving at a little past three, dressed as the minister. I will apologize for being late, give a fabulous sermon and then as the crowd diminishes your responsibility will be to tell what few Scotland Yarders that attended my funeral that before I died, I had given you some last piece of evidence and had this whole plan already in play. You will direct them to the cemetery but are not follow them. You and I will wait until the hearse delivers the casket to the gravesite. Then, we will come out from our hiding places and throw open the casket, revealing not money, but Princeton!"

"Princeton?" I exclaimed. "How on earth would Princeton get in the casket?"

Holmes smirked. "You will have to see."

~..oOo..~

"You really found my speech touching?" I whispered, watching as Lestrade and a few other men from Scotland Yard paced anxiously in the graveyard.

"I truly did." Holmes hissed back, his voice muffled from the beard he still wore dressed as the minister. "And I am sorry about what happened to your arm. How was I to know that in carrying a casket through the door your arm would be smashed? I'm just glad you didn't drop it."

I rubbed my arm where it had been jammed against the doorframe. "Think nothing of it. You just better tell me what's inside. It was so blastedly heavy."

"All in good time, my dear Watson." Holmes hushed me. "Look! Here they come!"

We crouched lower in the bushes as the same four men who had attacked us came around the corner. But as they spotted the police inspectors, they stopped short.

Lestrade heard their arrival first and called out, "Who goes there?"

"Tis I!" Holmes announced, jumping forth suddenly from the bushes and smilingly widely at the Inspectors and the four men who had cried out at Holmes's sudden appearance. "I hope I didn't frighten you." He said sympathetically, laying a hand on the arm of the man closest to him. "Did you come to pay your respects to the deceased?" He motioned to the casket. "Pay no mind to me; I am just the minister, here to perform the burial rites."

The men seemed to relax underneath Holmes's disguise. Taking the easy way out, one of them spoke. "Yes, that's why we're here. Poor old chap, we missed the funeral, we had other… business." He finished lamely and I saw a faint flicker in Holmes's eyes.

"Well, it is never too late to mourn." He led them closer to the casket. "Hallo!" he said suddenly, as if noticing the Inspectors for the first time. "Are you also here to pay your respects?"

Lestrade was staring at the wizened old figure as if he were some foreign creature. "No… you see, these men,"

"Never mind now!" Holmes interrupted. "I can see your grief. You needn't speak of it. Now if, you will all just come together," here he shuffled the reluctant kidnappers closer to the confused Inspectors. "I will give the last parting speech to this poor deceased fellow. What was his name? Elms? Holds?"

"Holmes," Lestrade corrected.

"Ah, yes. Holmes." Holmes sniffed. "Not related to that brilliant detective, eh?"

"The very man." Lestrade said patiently.

"Bless me!" Holmes laid a hand across his heart. "This poor soul is Sherlock Holmes? I wasn't aware of his passing. What is the world coming to?"

Lestrade laid a sympathetic arm on the supposed minister's arm. "I'm sorry, it is certainly a tragedy. But could you please continue with the ceremony? We are in a hurry."

"Of course, of course." Holmes brushed him off before bracing himself at the head of the casket. "If you would all bow your heads and close your eyes, I will begin." He waited patiently until all had done so. "We are gathered here to-day to mourn the loss of Sherlock Holds- Holmes. He was a great man. Surely one of the most brilliant, talented, good looking creatures to ever roam the earth."

I had a hard time to keep my laughter contained from my hiding place.

"This man," Holmes continued, winking in my direction. "Did much good in his life. Thanks to him, London became a safer place. His life will truly be missed by those who knew him. Even by those who were slightly jealous of his genius intellect." I saw him give a pointed look to Lestrade's bowed head. "We shall continue about our lives and continue to keep the life of Sherlock Holds in our hearts."

"It's Holmes..." One of the Inspectors reminded gently.

"Whatever. Now, amen."

"Amen," the other men echoed.

Holmes was grinning like mad. I was beginning to wonder if his face paint would crack. "What was it you men said you were here for? Business?"

"Yes," Lestrade said, stepping forward and grabbing the nearest ruffian by the arm. "These men are under arrest for the murder of Sherlock Holmes and the kidnapping of a Mr. Scott Princeton."

"Why that is quite shocking indeed!" Holmes feigned surprise, neatly jumping out of the way as the other inspectors grabbed the fellow kidnappers. "But why are you all meeting in a cemetery? A bit blasphemous if you ask me."

"It was a final wish of Mr. Holmes." Lestrade grunted, tightening the handcuffs around the hands of the gang's leader. "He even left them the ransom money."

"It's in the coffin," one of the men whined. "Holmes said so."

"Don't be absurd!" Lestrade ordered. "That is disrespectful to the dead."

"Open it!" they began to chant. "Show us the money!"

Lestrade paused, he was slightly curious after all. "Very well… minister?"

"Hm, what?" Holmes straightened from where he'd been leaning against the casket. "Open it? Oh my, I suppose so… I mean… it's not like he'd care…." Holmes slowly raised the lid, all of us leaning forward in anticipation.

The collective gasps I heard even from my place of hiding promised the contents were truly spectacular. I awed in surprise as the same young man who we had seen earlier in the week rose from the casket.

"Oh my!" Holmes voice was shrill. "This man has risen from the dead!"

The men who had been so unfortunate as to stumble into the arms of the Inspectors cursed.

"What's he doin' here?"

Lestrade looked thunderstruck.

Holmes sighed, losing all of his minister's character. "You really don't get it do you?" He asked. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or exasperated. "Very well, I'll tell you. Watson, you can stop your hiding."

I sheepishly rose from my place and joined the awestruck masses.

Holmes removed the wig and scrubbed at his face, rubbing off the makeup. "I'm not dead, if that's what you're wondering." He said as one of the Inspectors turned positively green. "I feigned my death so as to get closer to solving the case. In fact, it was solved before the funeral. I just needed all of your participation."

I saw the crowd begin to bristle at the thought of being used.

"Watson, I'm sure will write you the details in one of his romantic novels, but for now, I will just continue from where I last left Watson. He did have to pretend to mourn my absence all over again."

A few of the heads nodded in consent.

"I did drop off a note informing these men of a paid ransom." Holmes said, "But I also gave something to Princeton at the same time. You see, the house was deserted. I had learned from various sorts that Princeton's kidnappers were in the habit of going to a local pub at a certain time in the afternoon. Planning my visit to coincide, I had to find a way inside the locked building and then search the rooms until I found Princeton. Princeton was unharmed, as you can see, but surprised at my appearance. Giving him strict instructions, I also gave him my set of picklocks. He was to wait until the men had returned to check on him before they left again to go collect the ransom. While they were out, Princeton unshackled himself, slipped out of the house and climbed into the coffin before the funeral. I admit this was done for my amusement, because Watson will tell you that I can't resist a touch of the dramatic. Just in case Princeton changed his mind about lying in a coffin, bags of sand lined the bottom of the casket to give it adequate weight and the possible illusion of bags of money if the need had a risen."

~..oOo..~ 

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, relaxed by the warmth of the fire and the comforts of home. Holmes smiled at my sign of contentment and settled into the chair across from me.

"I'm glad you're not dead." I said quietly.

"Hm?" Holmes spoke through his teeth as he began to puff away at his pipe. "Oh, yes, me too. Being dead is hard work."

I smiled, "No, not that. I guess, this whole thing just reminded me of how I once really thought you had died. I hoped to never live through that experience again."

Holmes removed his pipe and gave me an even stare. "Thank you, for what you did to-day, Watson. None of it would have happened without you."

I gave a wistful smile. "You're welcome, Holmes. I hope we don't have to play funeral again for a long time."

Holmes grinned, putting his pipe back in his mouth, "You know, perhaps I'll lay aside cases for awhile. I might become a minister."


	2. Breaking II

"This was an awful idea." I complained, trying to blow warmth into my frozen fingers. "The ground is frozen solid! We'll never make a scratch in it."

"Oh, hush." Holmes ordered, striking the shovel against the ground and shuddering as it jarred against him. "I admit, this certainly isn't the finest weather for the sport, nor is the location a very attractive one, but crime waits for no one, especially with the Palmer trial to-morrow." He hit the shovel into the ground again and was rewarded with a scoopful of dirt. "And the last key to the puzzle is buried six feet under******. We need it to prove Palmer's guilt."

I sighed, getting to my feet again and joining my companion in the ankle deep dirt we had succeeded from disheveling from its frozen bed. "I feel like a grave robber."

Holmes blew a cloud of frigid breath into the air. "There isn't a body down there! We're looking for the missing pages of the Cranford will."

"In a casket?" I pointed out.

"One can never fully comprehend a criminal's mind, Watson."

"But still, don't you think the idea of hiding stolen documents in a casket is a bit farfetched? Palmer would just have to come and dig them up again. It's ludicrous."

"I'd say it's rather clever." Holmes's was vigorously banging his shovel against the earth in attempts to dislodge a large chunk of dirt. "Palmer found out he was not included in the will, so he stole it. If he isn't allowed part of the inheritance, why should it be divided amongst his family without him? Hiding the will would give him time to send the family into a panic. There had been a will, everyone knows it. The Cranford fortune is legendary. While his relatives were turning the family heirlooms upside down in the attempts to find the will, Palmer hid the original one and feigned surprise so as to not alert his kinsmen. His plan was to wait until the uproar settled its self out before going back to the original will and using it as a guide, rewrite a new one that would bequeath him a large part of the inheritance. He would then present it to his family as a miraculous find and no one would be the wiser."

"It seems a bit elaborate if you ask me. How could he forge the signatures? What about witnesses?"

"Do you remember the Arlington forgeries?"

"Yes,"

"That was him."

I stopped digging. "Then why isn't he already in jail?"

Holmes was indifferent. "I didn't have enough evidence. With this latest case, I should have substantial enough information to keep him in jail for quite a few years."

We dug in silence for awhile. The only sound was the grating of metal against frozen earth as we slowly scraped our way to the key that would put an elusive criminal behind bars. The day was slowly winding to a close when we finally decided to take a rest. The twilight of evening gave little light to continue our search and so leaning gratefully against a headstone, I lit the lantern.

It had been Holmes's idea to spend the night in the graveyard. He knew it would have taken us all day to near the casket holding the case solving evidence and he didn't want to leave it unguarded even for a second. "Won't it be fun, Watson?" He had asked me, nearly bubbling over with excitement. "The thrill of sleeping amongst all those tombstones, waiting for the morning sun to shed its light so we can unearth the convicting proof that Palmer is guilty?"

I had been astonished. The idea of spending the night amongst the dead in a cemetery in the middle of January with the possibility that the very man we were trying to convict could escape and come charging upon us did not sit well with me. An evening at Baker Street with tea and a warm fire was what sounded pleasurable. Even Holmes's wailing on the violin could be tolerated. But he had insisted on my helping him on the case and so being slightly curious to see how things would fall into place, I had consented to accompany Holmes at his cemetery vigil.

Now that we were unrolling bedrolls and Holmes was looking speculatively up at the clear January night sky did I begin to appreciate the thrill that Holmes found so enticing in his work. Lighting his pipe, he leaned against the headstone and pointed vaguely up at the stars.

"I've heard we orbit the sun."

"Oh, really?" I hid a smile.

"Yes, I know it's quite a shocking theory. But I have never given much merit to astronomical theories. I prefer to just see the wonders the heavens offer and let it be. Some things are allowed to stay an enigma."

We chatted companionably until a little past eleven where we turned in. Holmes gave little thought to sleeping on the ground in the cold and simply rolled over and fell asleep. Feeling rather foolish, I dimmed the lantern, but didn't turn it off. I had heard plenty of ghost stories in my bachelor days. Something made me feel uneasy and I quietly slid my service revolver closer to me in case I needed to reach it quickly. Not that bullets would have much effect on ghostly apparitions. But I found it comforting nonetheless.

I must have fallen asleep for when I awoke, the constellations had shifted and I was stiff from sleeping on the ground. It was the darkest part of night and everything was absolutely still. Stretching my leg which ached in protest at the coldness of the air, I rolled over to settle back down.

"Don't move."

The voice had come from the darkness and I froze mid breath. It hadn't been a loud voice. Hardly more than a whisper. But authoritative and commanding in its tone.

"Holmes?" I whispered quietly.

The cocking of a gun was the answer to my question.

I rose slowly, trying to blend in with the darkness. The voice was joined by a second one, one I recognized as Holmes's.

"It's too late, Palmer. Do you want murder added to your list of charges?"

Palmer gave a rough laugh. "With you dead, there won't be any evidence. I'll get away scotch free."

I tried feeling for my revolver. The lantern had been extinguished and I could only make out vague shadows among the tombstones. After making as thorough a search as the situation permitted, I was left with only one plausible fact.

The devil had _my _revolver. That was my weapon Palmer was pointing at Holmes. Cursing silently, I crept closer to where they were. They had stepped a few yards away from the open grave and I could make out shadows of their features in the moonlight.

Keeping as quiet as possible, I kept to the shadows and knelt behind a tombstone. A shovel was in reach and cringing as it made a soft scraping noise against the ground, I brought into my possession.

"I don't like you messin' with my things, Holmes." Palmer was saying. "What you're diggin' up is my personal property."

"Which you stole." Holmes pointed out.

Palmer shrugged. "It's all the same to me. Now," he steadied his aim. "No more of your talkin'."

"Holmes!" I jumped forward, startling Palmer who whirled around and shot wildly. I felt a sudden flash of pain and dropped the shovel. Holmes scooped it up again and gave Palmer's head a sickening whack.

"Are you alright, Watson?" Holmes asked, nearly leaping over Palmer's crumpled form. His pale face was a mixture of relief at narrowly avoiding danger and absolute horror.

"I'm fine," I said stumbling over and leaning against one of the many convenient tombstones "Just a scratch, that's all."

He gave a grim smile at my vain attempt at reassurance before growing gravely serious. "You are hardly well. I'm going to go fetch the doctor, he lives in that brick house we passed on our way does he not? It will only take a little while. Can you stay here by yourself?"

"Don't go!" It must have been worse than even I had been willing to let on. I was having a hard time focusing on Holmes's blurry frame. But as Holmes's eyes widened at my vehement protest, I tried to reassure him. "The ghosts." I panted. "You made me spend a whole night in the cemetery against my wishes and there is no way you can bail on me now."

"Don't be ridiculous! There are no such things as ghosts and you're injured!"

I limply waved off his claim. "You might have to hit them with the shovel."

Holmes allowed himself a small smile. "You really are a nuisance. Nothing more than a petty old woman who thinks the ghouls are going to haunt you."

The edges of my vision were quickly going black. "Just stay here." I whispered. "Talk. I've heard human voices keep the devils away."

Holmes's face showed hesitance before agreeing. "Very well. But if you die before the night is over and come back as a vampyre…"

"I won't."

I remember shivering in the sickly coloured snow as we waited for dawn to come. I don't remember much of our conversation as the line between reality bounced back and forth between my eyes. I recall laughing at something only to gasp in pain and see Holmes's stricken face as he instantly began to question my health.

But there is only so long one can endure and in those hours between night and a new day, I slowly faded and remembered no more. Looking back, I hate to think of what Holmes must have been through on that timeless vigil. Constantly checking for signs of life, one that was struggling to stay within the bounds of mortality and the other one crumpled in a heap by an open grave. The hours of waiting must have been horrible. Sitting alone in the dark while the only breath you could hear was your own. Amidst the crypts and coffins and an anxious heartbeat that echoed loudly and seemed irreverent to all the other stilled forms.

But with the dawn came hope as the town's local police force came up the hill to learn of Holmes's progress and escort him and the evidence to the early morning Palmer trial. What a shocking scene that must have been! A pale bedraggled detective, a wounded doctor and the unconscious convict.

To this day, I don't know what happened between that morning and to the time I awoke in a stranger's house. I gathered it to be the doctor's home and within the hour, footsteps were heard upon the stairs and the door opened to reveal a pale faced detective.

He tried to move quietly, but with the way he loudly poured himself a glass of brandy and sank into a chair even the heaviest of sleepers would have been awoken.

"I've heard grave robbing is hard work. Especially if the ghosts give you trouble."

He started and nearly dropped the glass before staring at me with wild eyes. "You're alive!"

"No, remember, the vamypre idea?"

"Vampyres aren't dead."

"Half dead."

"So this makes you only half alive?"

"I suppose so."

Holmes's face widened into a smile. "I'm not sure your clients would appreciate having a vampyre as a doctor. They might find your curiosity in blood a little too frightening."

"They'll get used to it. How did the Palmer case go?"

Holmes spoke quietly. "Palmer's dead."

My face must have shown a great deal of shock because he hastened to explain.

"No, no! It wasn't the shovel! You and I had nothing to do with it. He tripped coming down the hill and broke his neck. There wasn't a trial at all."

I hated to feel relieved at the death of a soul, but knowing the great stress Holmes had been under by the case, I felt somewhat justified in my emotions.

"So all our digging efforts were in vain then?"

"I wouldn't say that, I would call it more of an experience."

"One I don't feel like repeating."

"Ah, yes. I am quite sorry about that bullet wound. You were right, the doctor identified it as nothing more than a graze wound. You were lucky."

"I don't care about the bullet, these blisters from holding the shovel hurt like heck."*****

**Annddddd that's the longer story for my 221b, **_**Breaking. **_** I hope ya'll liked it, I'm not sure everything flows together, so let me know if I need to change things?**

**** Yes, 'six feet under' is not a Victorian or British term. Just roll with it. I think Holmes saying it is rather cool actually.**

***And no, 'heck' is not a word in the Victorian era dictionary.. it seems really out of character, but it's against my religious beliefs to swear so….. **


End file.
